Bargis Tryhol - Agent 004 - Chapter 11 - Bargis Goes To Blackpool

He'd drank too much and engaged in wanton sexual activity with all kinds of ladies from all corners of the globe in his unceasing quest to put international pain in the butt Blow-Me behind bars in Guantanamo Bay.

He tried to forget about the donkey incident down in Mexico.

Although sometimes it haunted his dreams.

But there were worse things to contemplate, like the unfortunate assassination of the only woman Bargis had ever loved, Beanne Flicka.

Bargis inwardly recoiled at the memory. It was too much to bear. He'd made love with Beanne Flicka, whom he'd been reliably informed was a lesbian - which turned out to be an unfounded rumour. She'd been hot to trot and had accommodated Bargis's ample dimensions in a Pattaya Beach hotel room.

Bargis went to shower, and when he returned, he found the love of his life - thus far at least - dead on the bed.

She had been spray-painted metallic green, which under a different set of circumstances might have been a quite fetching colour. The meaning of life, the only woman who could ever satisfactorily accommodate his outsized penis had been cruelly excised from the world as we know it.

Then he found himself reeling under a sustained assault from a weird looking, somewhat chubby Japanese assassin with a steel rimmed bowler hat with a razor edge.

Bargis battered the crap out of the Jap, being an expert in the martial art of Fu Kim Up.

Bargis tossed the fat mustachioed asshole out the window, tossing his hat after him.

Bargis really needed a break. He was upset, and all stressed out from the crap that had been going on around him for interminable weeks.

He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Despondent. All this killing was starting to get to him. Then, a revelation - a voice in his head told him, utterly unbidden:Go home Bargis. Go back to your roots. To the place of your birth...

Bargis took the next plane to Manchester, UK, and took a taxi to Blackpool, that seaside resort renowned for drunkenness and wanton violence.

Stopping off near the North Pier, Bargis set out in search of a B&B. Alas, no seaside landladies appeared to be prepared to accommodate Bargis: "We only cater to Stag and Hen Parties," appeared to be the stock response.

Downhearted and disillusioned, Bargis walked south down the promenade, narrowly escaping being run over by a tram, which was fortunate for him because clashes between trams and pedestrians usually only ever resulted in one winner.

Just as Bargis was about to give up the ghost, he stumbled upon four young lads sitting unhappily on a bench on the prom. Well dressed young lads. But looking rather glum.

"All right lads?" Bargis said as he passed.

"Actually no," one of the four said in a broad Liverpool accent. "We're not all right at all."

"What's up?" Bargis asked civilly, even though he hated Scousers, but only because of the football and the constant fighting.

"We been trying to get a room, but they've only got rooms for five, and as you can probably deduce by virtue of the gift of eyesight, there's only four of us," one of the quartet, a moody looking fellow in sunglasses said.

Bargis had a brainwave. (YYYYYYAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHH!)

"Why don't we pitch in together? Then we can get a room for five?"

The quartet exchanged glances. Almost by telepathy, an agreement was made.

"You're on mate. Let's go get a room. I'm John by the way, and these are me muckers, proper scallys, Paul, George, and Ringo."

So it was that Bargis and the Beatles presented themselves at the Frostyfanny Guest House on Talbot Road.

The landlady, whose moustache was not quite as intimidating as the ones possessed by neighbouring hoteliers laid down the rules in no uncertain terms.

"We operate a 10pm curfew," she barked at Bargis and the Beatles. "You come home any later than that, and you're locked out. Drunkenness and any form of fornication will not be tolerated. You will not be issued with a key. It's simple - if you're not in by ten, you're out."

That evening was an evening of terrible debauchery.

Lennon had relations with a girl under the pier.

McCartney denied having a knee-trembler in a bus stop.

Starr never got off with a girl, but impressed some gay blokes in a working men's club with his prowess on the drumkit.

Harrison consumed 3 litres of house wine at a local Catholic church.

To this day, nobody can say with any certainty what happened to Bargis Tryhol, Agent 004 (just in case you lost the whole point of this.)

Harrison was the first back to the guesthouse at 4am. Safe in the knowledge that he was locked out, Harrison took to the rooftops and managed to gain entry to the building.

The lads returned, tired but happy, and went to their beds satiated by the pleasures on offer in Blackpool.

All was not well however.

The following morning, after breakfast, so as not to embarrass other guests, the landlady gathered Bargis and the Beatles together in the breakfast room.

"I know," she told them. "What you degenerates got up to last night. Drinking, sex, keeping ungodly hours. It just won't do. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to pack your bags and leave. With immediate effect."

Bargis thought about this for a moment, while the Beatles were being all sheepish and subservient.

On a mad impulse he whipped out his enormously overdeveloped penis, and challenged the grouchy landlady:

"You see this fucking thing woman?" he challenged. "When you have a cock this size you can fucking well get in anywhere!"

As though to emphasise his point, Bargis started swinging his cock in the air like it was a long rope, like cowboys used to use to catch cattle but the spelling of it temporarily escapes me. (lassoo? lasoo? lasso?)

He swung it and twirled it and knocked a couple of ornaments off the fire place.

Leaving the Beatles stunned.

"I wasn't referring to you dear," the landlady said, adopting a lascivious grin. "Your dinner is in the oven."

Leaving Bargis thinking:

Fuck me, if I can deal with such a crap punchline then BlowMe won't be a problem.....